Kurt [08-06-11 3:07am]: He thinks I hate him.

Santana [08-06-11 3:10am]: Can you blame him?

Kurt [08-06-11 3:11am]: Am I that awful to him?

Kurt [08-06-11 3:14 am]: I can hear your silent judgment from here.

Santana [08-06-11 3:15am]: Do you want Santana or Snix?

Kurt [08-06-11 3:15am]: Santana. Snix. I don't care, just be honest with me.

Santana [08-06-11 3:16am]: You've been kind of a dick.

Kurt [08-06-11 3:17am]: He makes me crazy.

Santana [08-06-11 3:17am]: You want a visit tomorrow before we dive into this treachery otherwise known as band camp? I see you're rooming with him, which makes me think he really is making you crazy.

Kurt [08-06-11 3:18am]: I am. He is. It's going to be special. Tmrw at 2? Bring your horn. You're trying out for the Don't Stop Me Now duet.

Santana [08-06-11 3:19am]: I am not, but I'll bring my horn. I need help with that damned lick in Breakthrough. My squad has it down and I'm still bumbling.

Kurt [08-06-11 3:21am]: I figured you'd never have a fingering problem with all the practice you and Nini get.

Santana [08-06-11 3:20am]: Go to sleep, Kiki.

Kurt [08-06-11 3:21am]: You're trying out.

Santana [08-06-11 3:22am]: Go to SLEEP, Kiki.

~~~**~~~

Away bandcamp is one of those events in high school where you equally dread it and lose sleep with excitement for it. When it's over, it simultaneously feels like you've spent a week in hell and a week making the best memories that will last a lifetime. And regardless of the outcome, all of those feelings are dead-on accurate. It's exhausting. Exhilarating. Sometimes, it's even life-changing.

And for the seniors of McKinley's Marching Titans, they're all shooting for life-changing. Never again will this group of people be together like this. Never again will they work so hard, sweat so much (oh god, so much sweat), laugh so honestly and bond in ways that truly will make this band a family.

It's a three-hour drive from Lima to Hocking College, 150 students, their luggage and instruments all crammed into four school busses and one trailer. To the average person, it sounds like it would be hell-on-wheels. And depending on who your chaperone is, it most likely is hell-on-wheels. Band moms as chaperones? Boo. Ardent rule followers and only a rare few of them have a decent sense of humor.

Come on. The word "penis" is funny, especially when randomly shouted at the top of one's lungs in the middle of the journey. Even while mumbling, plebian, Kurt always gets a chuckle out of it.

"Plebian? We're royalty now?"

Kurt looks across the aisle to Blaine and blushes that he was heard. "Hell yes, we are. We're seniors. Therefore, royalty."

"I think it was Puck. Isn't he a sen—"

"Don't get weighed down by details."

Fortunately, the high- and low-brass get Jonesy, and while that sounds formidable, it always ends up a good time. The rules on all busses are simple: no foul language – and to Jonesy, a body part is not foul language – boys on one side, girls on the other after dark – always a particularly fun rule for the gay kids, and you can sing as many stupid songs as you want – volume is chaperone-dependent. With Jonesy, it's dependent on if she has a headache or not. Finally, no one's allowed to barf but unless you happen to be the one who needs to barf, everyone's on board with that particular rule.

They arrive in what feels like no time and it's a mass of organized chaos getting the band members and all of their belongings up into the dorm rooms before the first field rehearsal.

"You get 30 minutes to unpack, wash up if necessary, and get your asses out to the practice field. Rookies, if you don't know where that is, make friends with an upperclassman posthaste. You should have done that by now anyway."

Duffle bags, backpacks, instrument cases of every shape and size, bed rolls and of course, plastic boxes filled with every assortment of snack and electronic device are shoved into the elevators – so much stuff that it's hard to even see the students who are carrying them. Eventually, Kurt and Blaine get their turn on the elevator and stumble into their room.

"Nice! For a dorm room—" Blaine tosses his duffle and bed roll on a bunk and immediately starts opening the built-in cabinets inspecting the space. He slides open the door to the jack-and-jill bathroom and points.

"Sam and Mike?"

"Yep."

"Beats having to trek down a muddy path to bathrooms like we did at Camp Wilson with Wapak's band camp. God, that place sucked."

"We're the only school that gets to use these dorms. They were remodeled last year and they don't trust anyone else to keep them nice."

"This group? Keeps shit nice?"

"Yes. That's why the rules are so stiff. Jonesy expects complete professionalism from us when we're representing the school."

Kurt watches as Blaine putters around the room, meticulously stacking their snacks into one of the cabinets, unloading the cases of pop and water into the mini-fridge and finally standing up with a grin. "Which bed do you want?"

"This one's—this one is fine." He's nervous. And uncomfortable. And Blaine is just there. Being perky and organized and whistle-y and oblivious to the potential doom that could befall them this week. Accidental naked moments and morning wood and morning hair and morning breath and oh for the love of god, mornings are going to be horrible. And night time. And sleeping with him in the same room. And showering right after he has – or before and knowing—

Kurt just might die right here in the middle of Nelsonville, Ohio. He still can't believe he offered to room with Blaine.

Instead of dying, he decides to make up his bed and put his clothes into drawers and figure out how to set up their mini-dvd player for movies before bed. Blaine brought snacks; Kurt brought entertainment. "I have a couple of power strips for all of our electronic crap, although I don't know why we all bring this much stuff. We're in our rooms so little."

"I guess everyone wants a slice of home."

"After you eat breakfast tomorrow, you'll be wanting more than a slice."

"That bad?"

"We tell the rookies to make sure they eat the eggs, but I'll cut you a break." He stands after surreptitiously getting his underwear from duffle to drawer, slamming it closed. "Avoid the eggs. At all costs."

"Noted. Any other secrets to keeping my head above water?" Blaine's bed is made in a flash seeing as he brought a sleeping bag and a pillow.

"Don't play chicken against Snix. She'd drown Jesus if given the chance."

"Oh, well. She may have met her match. I'm amazing at chicken."

The idiot actually flexes and Kurt hides his interest at Blaine's well-toned arms with an eye roll. "Make sure I'm around to see that one go down."

"I will. In fact, you should be my teammate. We can take her – easy."

"I am horrible at chicken, but I'm an expert observer."

"Nah. You just haven't had the right partner yet." Kurt shakes his head as Blaine grins and smacks a baseball cap on his head, curls squirting out from under it like clown hair. "Okay, boss. Where's the practice field?"

~~~**~~~

Kurt is convinced the practice field is located in the 7th ring of hell. At one point during afternoon rehearsal he was stupid enough to check the temperature – 97 degrees, with a 105-degree heat index. And while heat supposedly rises, the valley that houses their practice field feels even worse.

For a short day, it's a long day. It's scorchingly hot and the marching is clunky and awkward as the rookies get used to the uneven footing of the grassy field versus the blacktopped parking lot they use at school. The realization that at day's end they have four more full days to look forward to – four full, multi-rehearsal, multi-hour days – it's a miracle no one calls home to mommy.

But, the first day is blessedly over. Kurt is properly showered, dressed in low-slung gym shorts and a worn-out t-shirt from his dad's tire shop. While Blaine showers, Kurt sets up the DVR player, pours drinks and over-fluffs his pillows 20 times. As the minutes tick by, he regrets his decision to invite Blaine to room with him more and more. If Blaine walks out of the shower in only a towel—

Santana [08-07-11 10:45 pm]: Have you seen his little Maynard yet?

It's as if she could see through walls.

Kurt [08-07-11 10:46 pm]: Do you need a hobby?

Santana [08-07-11 10:47 pm]: I have one. Getting you laid.

Kurt [08-07-11 10:48 pm]: It's not happening here. Go make-out with Nini.

Santana [08-07-11 10:48pm]: She's in the shower. We didn't think Q and Sugar would appreciate the audio from there.

Kurt [08-07-11 10:49pm]: And yet you thought asking me if I've seen Blaine's dick would be a viable alternative.

Santana [08-07-11 10:50pm]: I'm always thinking of you, Kiki.

Kurt [08-07-11 10:50pm]: He's here. It's Avenue Q night. Go away.

Santana [08-07-11 10:51pm]: There's a fine, fine line between a lover and a friend...

Kurt [08-07-11 10:52pm]: There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time.

Kurt plugs in his phone and puts it on silent. 3am texts are not happening at band camp. And if they are? He is sleeping through them.

Blaine walks in from the bathroom— and good god damn, he is only wearing a towel around his waist— drying his hair, humming The Internet is for Porn. Kurt can't decide whether to laugh or cry, so he sings along taking the prudish Katie's part until they're both giggling too hard to continue. Blaine's Trekkie imitation is one for the record books.

It also means his voice is even deeper than usual when he tries to talk again – which is highly unfair. "So, how are we going to do this with that little screen?"

"We either sit at the desk or lay down on the same bed."

"Bed. I'm dead." Of course, bed. Why did I even suggest otherwise?

And that's how they watch, and pause to laugh, and discuss other musicals they have yet to see but are dying to. And that's how Kurt learns that, even when wet, the curls in Blaine's hair deliciously tickle his chin when Blaine leans his head near Kurt's shoulder during giggle fits. Never on because, no – but near.

They're about half-way through watching the boot-legged copy of the musical when the hall lights flicker indicating lights-out.

"Crap. How strict are they about it?"

Kurt sits up and turns off the video. "Strict. Like everything else. We get about 10 minutes to do whatever we need and then they start pounding on doors if they see any light creeping into the halls."

"Damn."

"Again I say—"

"I know, I know. This is how we win competitions."

Ten minutes later, their lights are out and Kurt pops his iPod into the clock radio before getting into bed. "'Night, Maynard."

"'Night."

The quiet is horrible. The mattress is like rock. His pillow doesn't feel remotely like his own, even though it is. The sink is dripping in an unusual rhythm and even the effort of trying to dictate the pattern into visual notation fails at lulling Kurt to sleep.

Based on the sighing and shuffling and rolling to and fro from the other bed, it's clear Blaine is struggling as well. "You awake?"

"Yep. You?"

"No, I talk in my sleep."

Kurt throws a pillow at Blaine and then cusses because he sort of needs that pillow. "Um. Shit. Gimme."

Blaine throws it back and scolds. "Jackass. How quiet – I mean, do they fucking patrol the halls?"

"I forgot to see who our main monitor is tonight. Depends."

"Jesus."

Drip. Drip. Drippity drip clank.

Shuffle, twist, roll. Drip.

Tinkle tinkle tinkle.

"Someone forgot to pee before lights out."

"Money it was Sam."

"I'm not taking that bet."

Tinkle tinkle flush.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Yep, it was Sam. Dude never washes his hands."

Ten minutes later, neither of them are asleep and Kurt wonders if they might have inadvertently begun a competition as to who can sigh more melodramatically than the other. Finally, after more moments of shifting and sighing and dripping and almost maybe sleep begins to take over—

"I'm hungry."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Maynard?"

"Not even a little bit. Will the microwave light up too much?"

"Shhh. They'll hear us."

"Sorry. Whispering."

"Can't you just eat a handful of Doritos and call it a night?"

Before Kurt even realizes Blaine's out of bed, he's waving a box from the mini fridge in his face singing about a snack. "Pizza rolls, Kiki. Cheesy. Taco. Pizza rolls."

Kurt sighs – ever the long-suffering roommate – and sits up, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Put a shirt over the front so it won't light up so much."

"Sweet!" Blaine hushes himself and Kurt can't help but laugh at the fool. "See? Without me as a roommate, you'd wouldn't be having this much fun."

"But I'd be asleep." Kurt flops back onto his bed and grabs for his phone, swiping his finger across it to turn on the light. "Can you see okay?"

"Oooh, thank you. And really, sleep or fun – you'd pick sleep?"

"I suppose we can sleep once we're dead."

"Yes. There you go."

"Which should come sometime Thursday. Assuming we live that long."

"Are you always this big of a buzzkill?" He slams the microwave shut and Kurt reprimands him, followed by giggles and more shushes. Which is good because Blaine's whispered tones are low and throaty and they rumble deep in Kurt's chest.

"No, I just don't want to get in trouble." They're silent while the snack cooks, hoping it's not too loud and deciding that Blaine should stop it a second before it dings finished, which he does.

"See, though," Blaine hisses and squeaks as he picks up a roll too soon, bringing the plate over to Kurt's bed and climbing on it with him, "we can live through any punishment. We have pizza rolls."

"You're a dumbass."

"I'm a genius." Blaine pops a roll into his mouth hissing more and flapping his hands in front of his mouth from the burn while Kurt waits patiently for them to cool. And laughs.

"Dumbass."

"Yes. Dumbass. You win this round." He pulls another one apart to let it cool, setting it on the plate and leaning back against the wall. "So," he stops himself and lowers his voice again, "I heard your audition tonight."

"You—you did? No one was supposed to be in there."

"I know. Chelsea decided to audition—"

"Chel—what?"

"I know. I didn't have the heart to tell her it'll never happen, but she needed the music since she plays what? 3rd?"

"If we had a 4th or 10th part, she'd play that. Oh god, poor Jonesy. And if you," Kurt picked up a roll and blew on its innards, "just gave her the music? And she auditioned how long after that?"

"Thirty minutes, tops. I couldn't bear to wait and hear how it went."

"They don't pay Jonesy enough for that mess." Finally, Kurt ate his roll and moaned at the processed, fatty, perfectly awful-for-him flavor. "Oh god, these shouldn't be this good."

"But they are, Kiki. They so fucking are." Blaine picked up another half and clinked it against the piece in Kurt's hand. "To midnight snacks on the down low."

"To feeling like fifteen piles of shit in the morning. And fucking hell. I have Reveille tomorrow."

"You'll kill it. Fueled by pizza rolls. Also, you definitely got the solo. I was blown away."

"No. What? No. She'll give it to you, I'm sure."

"Why? Your sound is so rich and full and perfect for that song. You make it sound so effortless. How do you do that anyway?"

"Breath support? Your mouthpiece. These amazing lips." Blaine sputters and Kurt scolds, swiping down his blanket for any stray—spray. "If you got pizza spit on my bed, Maynard, you're getting laps. Before Reveille."

"I didn't get pizza spit—you do, by the way. Have, you know. Nice. Lips." Blaine picks at crumbs on the plate. "For playing. I mean."

Kurt doesn't dare look at Blaine. Surely he isn't flirting and—no. Blaine is not flirting. Even though it feels like flirting. It feels really good. Warm. Like the place where their knees are touching as they sit on Kurt's mattress.

"Look, I'm—I'm sorry. I sometimes talk before I think and—"

This might possibly end up being the longest four nights of Kurt's life, if night one is any indication.

"I like the 10C – I didn't mean to keep it this long."

"It's fine. Keep it until you get one for yourself."

"I did talk to Dad about that. You sure it's okay to keep it?"

"I'm liking the 7, so yeah."

Kurt's phone lights up and graciously breaks the tension in the room.

Santana [08-07-11 11:30pm]: When's the DSMN audition?

Kurt [08-07-11 11:31pm]: Tuesday. You have plenty of time. And you're 3.5 hours early for texting.

Santana [08-07-11 11:31pm]: Shut up. I can't do this.

Kurt [08-07-11 11:32pm]: Since when does Santana Lopez start a sentence with I Can't?

Santana [08-07-11 11:33pm]: Since 11:30 on Aug. 7, 2011

Kurt motions for Blaine to peek over, sharing the conversation. "Wanna help?"

Blaine skims and smiles. "She would sound amazing with Mike on that duet."

"I know. And we know Mike will get the mellophone part – he's the only one qualified this year."

"Tell me when and where. We'll get her ready."

Kurt [08-07-11 11:34pm]: Morning break. We're working on it and Maynard's going to help too. You're doing this.

Santana [08-07-11 11:34pm]: I hate you.

Kurt [08-07-11 11:35pm]: I love you too. G'night.

Kurt plugs his phone back in and tosses it to the foot of his bed, blinking when he sees Blaine staring at him like a curious puppy. "What?"

"You really are a nice guy, aren't you?"

"I have my moments. Of which there will be few if we don't get to sleep."

"Right. Bed. Going."

They settle in for a second time, sighing when the sound of the dripping faucet becomes the focus of the silence yet again. After a few flips and flops and huffs and turns, Blaine does what he seems to do best— dissipates the tension. That is, if he isn't the one who originally created it.

"Stones or Beatles?"

"What?"

"Stones or Beatles. Come on – I used to do this with my brother when we couldn't sleep during camping trips."

"Fine. Who needs sleep? Beatles."

"Boo. Stones, man. Stones! Start Me Up and Brown Sugar and Sympathy for the Devil. DUDE."

"Is that that stupid woowoo song?"

"Woowoo—what are you even talking about?"

There is a rap on the door and they both jump and swear. "Gentlemen. Lights out was forty minutes ago. Shut it down!"

They stifle giggles and Kurt turns to face Blaine, hoping his whispered tones will still be heard. "The woowoo song. It plays in my dad's shop all the damned time. Seven solid minutes of Mick Jagger singing woowoo!!!" His voice cracks in the attempt to be both quiet and high-pitched and they both laugh, silencing each other before Kurt finally finds his composure. "Oh my god it is the most annoy—Beatles. End of discussion. They don't woowoo. Wicked or Newsies?"

"Wicked. And I think you're completely insane."

"Possibly, but for the Wicked answer, you can live."

"You know, though – Newsies is pretty fuck—"

"Go to sleep, Maynard."

"Woowoo!"

Kurt decides he can live without one of his pillows, sailing it across the room again to a very satisfying, "Oof!"